


Beneath the Veil

by Sevenscorpions



Category: Hannibal (TV), Hannibal Lecter Series - All Media Types
Genre: Between Episodes, Hannibal is a Cannibal, Hannibal is trying too hard, Hannigram - Freeform, I Will Go Down With This Ship, Mentioned Mischa Lecter, Slow Burn, Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter... eventually, Work In Progress, gratuitous crime scenes, holy actual crime scene batman
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-12
Updated: 2017-04-07
Packaged: 2018-05-13 10:38:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 16,606
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5704555
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sevenscorpions/pseuds/Sevenscorpions
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Will Graham has been given a surprisingly normal case. Feeling that this is a halfhearted apology from Jack Crawford, he visits Hannibal to brainstorm about why he is feeling uncomfortable with working for him. Hannibal is unable to say for sure what Crawford's reasoning is, but he is there to offer friendly discussion- and some breakfast.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Early Mornings

**Author's Note:**

> This is a work in progress- I'm kind of making it up as I go along. Eventually it will get to Hannigram stuff, but I want to pick Will's brain for a bit first. Will isn't really sure how he feels about Hannibal yet, so for now, I'll be updating when I can.

It was dark. Confusingly, startlingly dark. Even in the most remote places there was some ambient light, but not here. The inky blackness swirled around him, slipping across his cheek, between his fingers, through his hair. It wasn’t quite liquid, wasn’t quite solid- it felt like a cool touch that slowly warmed into flame. It was everything, it was nothing. Faces swam in and out of his field of view. Pale, gaunt, bloodless faces. Whomever they had been, they were only dead flesh now. He felt the fear and dread begin to rise, and he fought to push it back down into the depths. One face he did recognize, a face he never wanted to see again. Garrett Jacob Hobbs was staring back at him, eyes milky white and teeth sharp. He braced himself for the inevitable "See? See?" but it did not come. The absence of sensation was nerve wracking. His hands shook. Suddenly, someone was whispering in his ear- a soft, steady voice that tugged at his brain, laughing at his ignorance. It was not Hobbs. It taunted him, he knew who it was, he just couldn’t put a name to the voice. Until he could figure out where he was, he would have to stay calm. He took a slow, deep breath. The darkness saw it’s chance and took it. It flooded his lungs in seconds and panic screamed to the surface of his mind- he couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t-

Will Graham woke with a start. His sheets were in a tangled mess around him, now dark with sweat and heavy on his chest. For a few, terrifying seconds he had no idea where or who he was, and then his eyes locked on the menacingly red glow of the alarm clock and he remembered the hotel. He was in some small Pennsylvania town on one of Jack’s cases. Just a case. Just saying that word in his head was enough to fill him with unease. He wished more than anything that his mind could let go of the things he saw when he stepped past the crime scene tape- out of sight, out of mind- but he knew it would never happen. Sometimes it felt as if that crime scene tape was wrapped around his throat- tightening with every step away from the carnage. The ugliest parts of humanity made themselves comfortable inside his head, demanding to be remembered. 

A chill went through him. He wasn’t cold, but he was spooked. His first instinct was to reach for the bottle of whiskey he usually kept on the desk by his bed, but he was not at home. The side table was typical of any moderately priced hotel- a lamp and alarm clock sat next to a small pad of paper and a boxy white telephone. He shifted, untangling himself from his soaked sheets until he was lying on his back on the dry side of the bed. He tossed the pillows out of the way- they were barely stuffed and the pillowcases were rough. He couldn’t stand anything but softness on his skin; his clothes, his sheets, his dogs. It was one more way he could extend his small bubble of comfort into the world. 

It was 3:32 am. Too early to eat, and he was too shaken by his nightmare to try to sleep again. Instead, he pulled himself out of bed, grabbed a towel to wipe his forehead, and moved to the small desk by the window. The chair wasn't well made, and made an awful shrill squeak when he slid it back to sit down. The drawers were empty, but there was a cheap ballpoint pen next to his bag, which was filled to the brim with case files and paperwork. He flipped open the manila folder containing the case material, quietly resigning himself to another long day. If he couldn’t sleep, at least he could get something done.

Jack had assigned him the case almost as an apology- just a run-of-the-mill homicide. No horror-movie tableau, no shock factor, no nightmare fuel. Will assumed it was to be an “easy” case to keep him busy and sane before he jumped back into the hellish investigation of the Chesapeake Ripper case. The last time Jack called him it was clear that he had noticed Will’s slow deterioration over the course of the past few months. It was obvious that he hadn’t been sleeping, but he continued to work because he had to- people would die, and there was something awful about knowing that he could just stop if he really had to. But he had sacrificed his own well-being before to save lives, and at this point he was too deep into the Ripper’s head to claw his way out empty-handed.

Will tried to concentrate, but it seemed that the more he stared at the pages in front of him, the more the letters started to drift and fade. He could feel himself falling asleep again, against his will. The last thing he needed was his subconscious acting up again. He got up and headed towards the bathroom, turning on the faucet and splashing cold water on his face. It didn't wake him up any more than he already was, but it gave him an excuse to see how dark the circles under his eyes had become. The towel on the sink was soon in a small pile on the floor. Once his boots were laced and his coat was buttoned, he was out the door. The elevator was waiting, the small blinking light of the button illuminating the dim hallway. He needed to think. He needed to drive. 

The sky was beginning to lighten when Will finally parked the car outside Hannibal Lecter’s home. He was uncertain where his discomfort around the man bled into a strange relationship of unsteady trust. There was a peculiar cadence in his speech, a rhythm that encapsulated his entire life. Everything was clean and in it’s place. Luxurious, comfortable even- but at arm’s length. He even looked unreal. He was like a statue come to life, permanently lost in the uncanny valley. His actions were so smooth that they almost appeared to have been rehearsed. Will couldn’t shake the feeling that Dr. Lecter was friendly in the way that an anglerfish uses its delicate dancing glow to attract its unsuspecting prey. Only time would tell if his suspicions were correct- a thought that made him shiver.

He knocked twice, and after a moment heard footsteps approach the door. His hair was sticking up at odd angles and he wore a pair of loose grey pajamas. Will looked down and saw he hadn’t even put on slippers. It was surprising to see him so disheveled- without his suit and tie he seemed to be missing a vital part of himself. But then again, it was very early, and he had most likely been asleep. No one looks good in the morning, not even someone as elegant as Dr. Lecter.

“Hello, William. What brings you here this early?”

“It’s Will, please. And I need to brainstorm. I’m sorry for waking you.”

“You need not apologize. I usually rise early. Come in, I’ll make breakfast.”

Will stepped inside, and as always his eyes were drawn all across the room. There was so much to look at- the place was like a museum. The house looked as well put together as Hannibal did not- all sharp angles and bold colors where his psychiatrist was pale and soft from sleep.

“Sit down wherever you’d like. I’ll be just a moment.”

He slipped quietly out of the room, presumably to get dressed. Will sat at the kitchen table, wondering why exactly he was here. He hadn’t planned to visit. While he drove he often found himself in a kind of autopilot, and he let his body take him wherever he needed to be. His body had an odd sense of humor. 

Hannibal returned, this time with a silk robe and his hair brushed. He immediately began preparing the kitchen for whatever it was that he was making. Utensils soon covered the counter, and the robe was covered with a canvas apron. 

“Is there anything you would like to eat?”

“Oh. I don’t know, I guess whatever you’d like. It’s your house.”

“The guest always gets first choice. I insist.”

“Uh. Eggs? I guess? That’ll be fine. I don’t want to use all your food.”

“Believe me, I have plenty. Just went for groceries two days ago. A big breakfast won’t do you any harm. Eggs it is.”

The stove flickered to life, and Hannibal pulled out a small box from behind the toaster. Inside was a wheel of recipe cards on creamy white paper. After flipping through ten or twenty of them, he selected a card. Strangely, it had a business card taped to the back. 

“Business cards?”

For a split second, Will saw Hannibal stop. It was just a moment, a movement small enough that Will doubted whether he had really seen it or not. Hannibal’s eyes did not leave the recipe, but when he spoke it was in an even, casual tone.

“Oh, yes. I’m afraid that I don’t have anywhere else to keep them. I find that the recipe holder keeps them quite organized. I would hate to lose one only to need it in the future.”

“Don’t they make business card holders? They’re pretty cheap. I think they have them at every office supplies store. Why not use one of those?”

“Why buy something superfluous? The recipe holder works perfectly well for me.”

“That doesn’t sound like you, to be perfectly honest. You seem to be the type to buy something like that for the sake of keeping things separate.”

“I appreciate your honesty. I do enjoy having things in their place, but on occasion I can handle a particular amount of disorder if it suits my needs. I would say the same can be said for you as well, William.”

“Will.”

“Yes, I apologize. Will it is.”

“Thanks.”

“I hate to change the subject when we are having such an interesting discussion, but to introduce this recipe I think we can make an exception. Would you be opposed to fried duck eggs with blood sausage?”

Will had to laugh. “There’s no reason to show off, Dr. Lecter. You can just make scrambled eggs, I’ll be fine with the basics.”

“I can assure you, I am happy to share a quality meal with you. And if I call you Will, you must call me Hannibal. I’m not your doctor in the mornings, only when we have appointments.”

“Fair enough. But why go to the trouble of making a breakfast you know I won’t be able to appreciate?”

“A breakfast marks the beginning of a new day- a clean slate. Good food cannot take the place of a good night’s sleep, but it lends an air of luxury to an otherwise uneventful morning. You should certainly be able to appreciate a warm meal.”

Will settled back in his seat. A sharp pain ran up his calf as he stretched out his legs. How long had he been driving? He couldn’t remember. Nowadays there were lots of things that seemed to casually slip out of existence- little things that others wouldn’t notice. Mugs would go missing, his clothes would be different than he remembered choosing that morning. Sometimes he looked at his watch and found it was hours later than he thought it was, as if someone had sped up time while he wasn’t looking. It was disconcerting, but since no one seemed to notice anything wrong, he figured there must not be anything worth worrying about. Or so he hoped.

“You said you needed to brainstorm. About what?”

Hannibal had his back to him as he was cracking the duck eggs. Will wondered how he was able to do it so smoothly. Somehow, not a single piece of shell ended up in the bowl. Will stopped making eggs years ago- it was too much trouble picking out the shells and he always made a mess. And yet Hannibal was flying about the kitchen, adjusting dials and choosing spices to accent the blood sausage. The man moved like he was waltzing with his wooden spoon and spatula. He didn’t have to watch where he was going- his body knew this kitchen from top to bottom, inside and out. It was an extension of himself.

“I don’t really know. I just feel uneasy. Jack put me on this case… it’s too simple. It feels like he’s compensating for how badly he feels about putting me in the position he does. It’s just a homicide. And I know that any life saved is important. Any murder that is solved is a case well closed. But this just feels… I don’t know. I can see into the murderer’s heads, but not Jack’s.”

“What do you think that says about him? Or you? You speak of him with bitterness that is well deserved, but you continue to follow along. If you do not want to do this, you are not obliged, Will. Your mental health has to come first.”

“Why? Why am I more important than the families, the couples, the people that get killed on a daily basis? Why is my brain more important than their lives?” 

Will’s voice rose, quavering with unexpected emotion. He didn’t like to think about his job. He tried to think about why he did it even less. 

“I didn’t say that. You chose those words for a reason. The work you do is difficult, emotionally and mentally. It is clear to me that you hold little value for yourself. Whether that has been a part of your self image since the beginning, or trained into you by Jack I do not know.”

“I’ve never been important. My… abilities are more valuable to the world than I am. I’m just the body that holds them. I am the mechanism of communicating these abilities to the world. If something were to happen to me, they would mourn what I could do, but they wouldn’t mourn me.”

“Will, you are lying to yourself. Any ability you have is a part of you. I can assure you that you are valuable. You have many friends- Beverly, Alana, myself."

“That’s the worst thing though. Logically, I know that being like this doesn’t make any sense. None of this does. I let Jack pull me around like a puppet on strings, doing work I don’t want to do because I know there’s guilt waiting for me if I don’t. I can’t stand not feeling like I’m in control of my own body.”

“What do you mean ‘of your own body’? Is this in terms of your feeling of being a puppet of Jack’s?”

“Yeah. That and the time thing.”

“You’ve been losing time again?”

“In small amounts. It’s not as bad as it was, but then again I didn’t know what it was when it was happening. At least, I think it’s happening. No one’s noticed anything wrong, so it must be me.”

“What kind of time loss?”

“Sometimes I notice I’m not wearing the clothes I put on that morning. I’ll look at the clock and it will be 6 pm when a few seconds ago it was 2 in the afternoon. I went for a drive in Pennsylvania and found myself here.”

“Well, I’m glad you arrived safe. If you wouldn’t mind, I would like to take note of this so we can discuss it further in one of your next sessions. I’m worried about you, Will.”

“Thanks. I- can we talk about the time loss some other time? It makes me uncomfortable just thinking about it. I don’t want to ruin today this early on. God, I need a drink. Do you have any whiskey?”

“It would be unethical for me to give you alcohol this early in the morning, especially if you plan on driving later. However, you have impeccable timing. Breakfast is just about ready.”


	2. Food for Thought

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will and Hannibal talk over breakfast. Will is apprehensive, but slowly begins to get a feel for his place in the mind of Hannibal Lecter.

Will worried for a second, unsure if he should move to the dining room or stay where he was. Hannibal didn’t give him the chance to make a decision- he placed the full plate in front of him, handed him silverware wrapped in a pale green cloth napkin. The smell hit him moments later- a warm, sort of spicy aroma from the sausage, the fresh parsley and pepper sprinkled over the eggs. He had to admit, it looked lovely. But then again, everything this man cooked looked perfect. Three eggs sat snugly against the thick sausage, yolks a bright yellow-orange smiling up at him like the sun.

Hannibal sat across from him with his own plate, expectantly glancing at Will in an attempt to gauge his approval. The heat of the kitchen had brought red to his cheeks and his eyes were pale in comparison. Will thought he looked eager to please, like one of the dogs when it brought in a stick to play with. It was a strange expression for him; he so often wore an air of calm. His hair was ruffled again, maybe by the apron, which now sat folded on the chair beside him. Will stared down at the food blankly, waiting for his brain to take everything in. It wasn’t that he was unimpressed- he simply had too much going through his head. Hannibal waited patiently for Will to take a bite before he began to eat. A minute or two passed, and Will hungrily dug into the eggs. Yolk spilled everywhere, drowning the sausage and slice of toast his host had so thoughtfully provided. After Will had some time to taste enough food to have an opinion, Hannibal spoke.

“So? Do you like it?” 

“The eggs are strange. I’ve never had duck eggs before. They’re good though, thank you.”

The only sound was the clatter of silverware and the fan over the stove. Hannibal had already eaten most of the eggs on his plate.

“I’m glad you enjoy it. Try the sausage with the yolk, I find it to be quite good. I made the sausage myself.”

Will took a hesitant bite. It was bitter, but the yolk rounded it out to a bizarre combination of tastes. The texture was unlike any other sausage he had eaten. It was far too rich for his stomach this early in the morning, so he mostly kept to the eggs. 

“Blood sausage, so I assume pig blood?”

Hannibal smiled. For a moment Will could see the flash of white teeth, before a slice of sausage interrupted his view. Hannibal took his time to chew, closing his eyes briefly to savor each bite. 

“Only the finest. Good quality blood congeals to create a thick, rich flavor. Any blood sausage requires patience and practice to perfect.”

“Good quality blood. A bit of black humor always brightens up the morning. The two of us have seen a lot of good quality blood, haven’t we?”

“I suppose you’re right. Though it was not my intent to reference our respective histories, I do see the humor.”

Will couldn’t help but think of the bloodless faces from his nightmare. He could smell the iron, staining his thoughts with deep purplish red. Blood. He had seen it before, animal and human- so he shouldn't be bothered, right? He was hungry, he should eat. Yet he hesitated to take another bite. Something in his gut told him it would be...disrespectful? He didn't know, he just knew that something wasn't right. He put down his fork. He must have made a dissatisfied face, because Hannibal stopped.

“Are you alright?”

“Yeah. The sausage was a bit too bitter for me, but the eggs were nice.”

“Any dish involving blood- of any kind- is an acquired taste. After years of partaking in it I have learned to appreciate the flavor. Not to mention the health benefits of the iron. If I had been a proper host, I would have served you something more to your liking.”

“No, no, it’s fine. It was good. Just very different.”

Hannibal gave him one of his rare smiles. Will could tell that one of the only things the man loved more than his fancy suits and eclectic music was being told he was an excellent chef. It was an admirable hobby, but Hannibal took it to an entirely new level. He elevated his skill to art. Will marveled at how utterly odd the man was. He spent thousands of dollars on high fashion, artwork, a harpsichord in his living room, but he kept his business cards taped to the back of his recipes because he didn’t want to buy a cheap holder for them. He offered incredible food at the most unexciting of occasions, simply because he could. He tagged along to crime scenes for fun, and to keep his patient company. Will wasn’t really sure how he was supposed to see Hannibal Lecter- as he presented himself, or as the mysterious figure lying beneath. There had to be a reason his psychiatrist acted the way he did. Will doubted that he would ever find out what it was.

Will looked up from his food, almost as if to speak, but Hannibal was not there. His disappearance was silent, but that was typical- he could stalk about the house without making a sound. Will would have bet money that Hannibal took a small joy in frightening the living daylights out of people when he suddenly appeared right next to them. He had done it to Jack twice, and it was the only time Will had ever laughed at work. He remembered the look on Beverly's face when Jack let out the loudest shout. He had practically leaped a foot in the air, and instantly Beverly had looked at him incredulously. Hannibal had simply stood there innocently, apologizing for the surprise, while Jack quickly attempted to gather his dignity and composure. The second time was just as funny, only Jack didn't think so.

Will took the opportunity to look around, moving over to the large armchair in front of the living room’s fireplace. The only time he ever really spent in this house was in the main office where Hannibal saw his patients. The place was huge. For a single man, there was certainly a lot of bedrooms and bathrooms. But then, Hannibal didn’t really seem the type to date. He was too austere, too distant. The only relationships he had were with his patients, and most of them were professional. As much as they’d talked, it seemed that Hannibal knew a lot more about Will than he knew about Hannibal. It made sense- he was his psychiatrist, after all. But according to Hannibal, he was also his friend. Will was too intimidated by him to ask anything about his life before they’d met; he had always gotten the feeling that it was intensely personal. Hannibal was the only person he had ever met who didn’t have a single family photo hung on the walls or on his desk. It was almost as if he had sprung into existence fully grown- that he was the only Lecter there was, and had ever been.

Will couldn’t imagine what kind of world Hannibal had come from- his accent was eastern European, but that was the most that he could guess. Nothing he said or did gave any clues to his history, only his aloof watchfulness that kept him firmly distanced from anyone for too long. How long would he spend caring and worrying for Will before he decided it was too much? Would he just one day receive a call saying he had been referred to someone else? Would he tell him plainly that their relationship was in the way of his evaluations? 

“I’m dreadfully sorry about disappearing like that. I traditionally get dressed around this time, and I wouldn’t want to make a habit of wandering around the house in my pajamas.”

Hannibal emerged, this time fully dressed in one of his garishly patterned suits. This time it was navy plaid, paired with a silver tie and shirt. It wasn’t one of the more obnoxious suits he’d seen him in, but it wasn’t exactly something you’d wear to the office. Will smiled. The pot calling the kettle black- he wore flannel shirts and jeans every day, regardless of what he was doing. On occasion he could be wrestled into a suit, but the collars were always too tight and the jackets uncomfortable. He hated being wrapped up like a doll for someone to pick apart his wardrobe while he stood in front of them. It was much easier to focus when you were wearing something familiar. It took the edge off the strange, surrealist world of the crime scenes. It reminded him, more than anything else, of home. 

“Oh, it’s fine. I was just looking around.”

“Feel free to look. I don’t hang all these lovely paintings just for myself, you know.”

“Then why do you? To show off at dinner parties? You don’t really entertain in places other than your dining room.”

“Partly it is for myself. I have always found comfort in the arts, and the colorful world they create. I have never lived in a home without music, without paintings. It is as much a part of who I am as your dogs- though I do enjoy having company. I don’t have many occasions other than dinner parties to invite others to my home. I have no living relatives.”

Huh. And just like that, an answer to one of the burning questions that Will, and presumably many others, had regarding Hannibal Lecter.

“I uh, I’m sorry to hear that. I don’t really have anyone either- at least that I talk to, anyway. What were they like, your family?”

“I was born in Lithuania, just before the second world war. I had intelligent, kind parents. We were rather wealthy, although fairly isolated from others. Their lives were devoted to routine, preserving our family history through family treasures and artworks the same way their ancestors did before them. Their love of the arts in part inspires mine. The rest is simply curiosity.”

There was a pause as Will tried to come up with something to say. The last thing he had expected was a direct answer, but here they were, swapping family histories in front of the fireplace. Will could think of multiple questions, all of them personal and, most likely, prying. However, he noted that Hannibal had quickly changed the subject from his parents to the arts. Maybe it was their manner of death that unnerved him, or something else entirely. Whatever it was, Hannibal was very clearly steering the conversation away from anything that might bring it to the surface. Will felt a surge of curiosity. The way he hesitated, it sounded like there was more to that family than just his parents. Maybe he had aunts or uncles, siblings even, that were disowned. Maybe they had died as well, but in a more traumatic matter. Or he could be far off course, and there was no one else but himself and his mother and father. As he had said, he could see inside most anyone’s head- but he couldn’t for the life of him dissect the mind of Hannibal Lecter. The doors to his thoughts were deadlocked, with no place to put a key.

“I grew up in Louisiana. I don’t really think about my parents that much. My Dad liked to fish. He taught me what he knew, and I ran with it. I don’t remember my mother, Dad never talked about her.”

“Louisiana is a beautiful state. I have visited only a few times, but I thoroughly enjoyed my stay.”

“It’s beautiful if you have money. Not if you’re poor and the son of a single father who sleeps on a mattress on the floor because he can't afford a bed.”

“I apologize for my presumption. I did not intend to make you uncomfortable. Having come from a wealthy family, I have no scope of experience to understand that.”

“It’s fine. The past is the past. I have enough money to get by, and that’s all I need. I've got my house, my dogs... I’m not the kind of man for luxury.”

Will had often tried to remember his mother. The only thing he knew came from a small, dusty photograph he had stumbled upon as he was cleaning up before he left for university. His father looked truly happy, an emotion young Will saw only in quiet moments where they fished together or just as he was about to fall asleep. The woman by his side was tall, with thick waves of brown hair and hazel eyes. She had glasses that framed her round face, and she was smiling. Will had heard occasionally from those who knew his mother that he looked just like her, but he couldn’t see much of a resemblance. Maybe it was the curve of his mouth, or the shape of his nose, but to Will she just looked like another college-age woman, someone he might meet at the grocery store or the dog park.

He had no recollection of her voice- no memory to cement her in his mind. According to his father, she left shortly after he was born. She wasn’t able to handle the responsibility of a baby, or the responsibility of being in a relationship. Will admired that she had seen that her situation was not something she wanted to conquer and she had the ability to leave it behind. He didn’t feel any anger towards her absence, only a faint wish that he had been as strong. His father had raised him to be careful, and to be aware. The one thing he never spoke about was Will's mother, and he knew that it would be wrong to ask. He hadn't ever been told not to speak about her, but he knew it made his father upset, and for young Will that was the worst thing in the entire world. Some nights his father would go out on the porch of their squat, one story house and just stare, as if he were waiting for her to return. She didn't.

What memories did Hannibal Lecter have of a mother? A father? Did they share his sharp features and his quiet mannerisms? How did they die? What happened in that wealthy home in Lithuania to make the man that sat across from him? Will tried to picture a young Hannibal, playing games and taking naps. Every time he thought he had an image in his mind, the young boy spoke and his voice was that of a man. Will thought of Lithuania, a secluded mansion in the woods where his psychiatrist began his life. Born before the turmoil of world war two, heir to a battlefield.

“The past is the past. I believe that in a way, the past is also the future. What happens now will lay the framework for a thousand options, each leading somewhere entirely different. Your past and my past, however different, both led us here.”

"And where exactly is here?"

"Friendship."


	3. A Change in Perspective

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We take a moment to visit the situation from another point of view.

Hannibal Lecter was satisfied. He hadn’t expected such an early awakening, but he was pleasantly surprised to see Will Graham on his doorstep. It was clear that he had suffered through a difficult night, but that wasn’t anything out of the ordinary for a man in his career. There was a chilled wind howling throughout the city, rattling windows and prompting those unfortunate enough to be outside to wish they were wrapped in blankets in bed. Hannibal wasn’t cold at all, but for appearance’s sake he put on an old robe and prepared to psychoanalyze.

Will was gruff and quiet as always. His mop of thick hair was hidden under an old hat that looked like it was twenty years old. He shuffled inside, kicking off his boots and shrugging off his coat. He didn’t seem to mind that the cuffs of his jeans were soaked with early morning dew or that his facial hair was untrimmed. Instead he was more interested in a stiff drink and avoiding the subject of his deep-seated self loathing. Every conversation the two had always came back to his unwillingness to take charge of his own life. Will’s persistent denial came from fear; Hannibal had long known that it was the most prominent guiding force in his actions. Fear was odd. It destroyed rational thought, yet it somehow made people choose the smartest course of action to ensure that survival was the result. Hannibal had felt fear maybe three times in his life, and never for himself. He knew himself well enough. Were he forced to choose between fight or flight, he would make the decision that would suit his needs without embellishment, quietly shifting the focus of danger to the next most vulnerable person.

There was something different in Will’s eyes this morning. His eyes darted around the room, never making eye contact for long, though that was typical. It was the intensity with which he looked, the questions that lurked behind his lips, waiting for release. Will asked a lot of questions, but never expected a response. When Hannibal freely offered information, he knew that it was being offered strategically and without personal involvement. Will most definitely did not trust Hannibal yet- and hopefully, that would change. The best way to play towards Will was to give him what he was hoping for but too intimidated to ask. He wondered, he trifled with questions of family history and art, pulling the conversation away from the fact that he had arrived to brainstorm on a case but had done nothing of the kind. Instead he inquired about the business cards. 

Hannibal relished the texture of the creamy card stock beneath his fingertips, almost as much as he treasured the dishes they had inspired. The names did not matter to him, only the experience they provided. Will was understandably curious, but Hannibal had had plenty of time to construct an unassuming response to the inevitable question of why they were there. Most of his guests simply accepted it; Will, in his usual persistence, did not. 

Hannibal was surprised when Will asked him about his family. Hannibal only thought of them as far off figures of another life- much like the men and women in the paintings he hung in his home. As much as he had wanted to speak of that time to someone, he knew the danger it held. That time was long gone, and so were his parents, his sister. Mischa. Involuntarily her name flew to his mind, and the memories pained him like a migraine. He had always wished that his last memory of her would be that afternoon, playing by the lake with the swans. Teaching her to spell her name. But no, instead there was ice and noise and crude voices, the opposite of everything he had striven to become. Mischa was his memory, and his alone. As much as he enjoyed the company of Will Graham, as much as he understood him, Mischa was not to be spoken of. He saw that Will had noticed his hesitation, but he knew that the man most likely assumed it was the common pang of loss, not omission. His carefully constructed story had enough truth to be believable, and enough untruths to keep private what needed to be hidden.

“I’m flattered, Hannibal. But I’m not sure if your idea of friendship and mine are the same.”

“I want what any other man wants in a friend. Companionship, intellectually stimulating conversation. Patience- and an open mind. You possess all these traits, why should I not want to be your friend?”

“You know how volatile I can be. And our relationship should be strictly professional, shouldn’t it? I don’t like having my mind picked apart. I like it even less when it’s being picked by someone I’m close to. I’m not in any position to be your friend, though I appreciate the compliment.”

“We all have in us a certain amount of volatility, myself included. I know that you are curious about me, and that fact makes you uncomfortable. If you wish our relationship to be, as you said, strictly professional, then why did you appear on my doorstep this morning? You could have made an appointment, but you did not. Instead you ate breakfast with me, spoke about your past with me, and I shared some of my own. Is this not akin to friendship?”

“That’s not what I meant. I can’t be your friend until I feel completely comfortable around you, and the truth is that I don’t. I don’t know when or if that will be, but I just can’t right now. You’re my colleague, my psychiatrist, but that’s all.”

“Understood. Thank you for letting me know. And when you decide, feel free to visit whenever you like. My kitchen is always open, both to colleagues, patients, and friends. I trust that in this case you are making the wisest decision for yourself.”

Will said nothing for a minute or two. Hannibal could see the thoughts tumbling around inside his head as he tried to sort out his feelings. His brows were knit, eyes darkened. It was a face that Hannibal had observed often, in the quiet between sentences where Will finally had time to think. It was endearing- his lower lip jutted out as he clenched his teeth- a destructive habit, one that Hannibal himself sometimes battled with- in a childish pout. His face was so innocent, boyish even, underneath the facial hair and black glasses. It did not match the turmoil that he kept locked tightly at his core, threatening to be released. Hannibal admired that darkness; he had nurtured it in himself for so long, and it was jarring to discover it in someone so inherently kind.

Hannibal knew that he was not a good person. How could he be, after all that he had endured and inflicted upon the world? He delighted in what the average person would describe as grotesque. Though murder was fiercely vulgar, death had a delicate beauty. His destruction paved the way for new growth, a tableau of exquisite artistic vision. To Hannibal, the people he killed were not lost. They were transformed into something new, something worthy of interest. They left behind their despicable humanity and became something of value- nourishment as art. And still, there was the nagging thought that he was no better than his victims for what he did to them. Every meal left a tombstone in it’s wake, a mourning family or friend that would never understand why. For them, the nightmare would be knowing that their loved one had died simply because Hannibal thought it was fun. He would not give them the satisfaction of a meaningful death. He simply didn’t care.

“Will, I must ask. Why are you uncomfortable around me?”

“I don’t know, I just… I get a gut feeling. No offense.”

“None taken.”

“You… always seem like you’re withholding something. Like you already know what I’m going to say before I say it. I’d like to trust you, but I can’t. I need a reason to trust people, and I need to know that they mean it. That they aren’t going to put me in harms way to make themselves feel better.”

“Like Jack?”

Silence. Will's hands fidgeted in his lap. Suddenly, he was staring directly, defiantly, into Hannibal's eyes.

“Yes. Like Jack.”

“Do you think I’m going to hurt you, Will? Or make you do things you do not want to? I want to help you, not cause you pain.”

“But I don’t know that, do I? How do I know you’re not just saying that to make me trust you?”

“You don’t. But trust requires that you believe someone even without proof.”

Will’s entire body tensed, as if he were waiting for an attack. 

“I can’t do that. I need a reason.”

“What kind of reason? What is it that you are really looking for?”

“Something. I don’t know, a person who knows who they are and doesn’t pretend! Someone who won’t make me remember all the death, all the blood. I don’t know what I want. I just… I don’t know.”

His voice sounded like steel. Each consonant was spat out like poison, every word cold and hard. Hannibal had seen Will when he was angry before, and it wasn’t like this. When he was angry, he tripped over his words and closed his eyes tight, blocking out the world around him. He paced back and forth, his hands whipping about to match the intensity of his words. This wasn’t anger. This was almost… almost desperation. 

“Will, I need you to stay calm. The stress you are under is causing paranoia, and you can take control of yourself if you focus on what you want.”

“I know what I want. I want a drink.”

Hannibal sighed. A little wine at dinner was lovely, but Will had a problem. He started every morning with two fingers of whiskey and didn’t stop there. He glanced out the window. The sun was fully up, and the city was beginning to gear up for another 12 hours of working and living their normal human lives. Breakfast had ceased almost an hour ago. 

“Tea or coffee?”

Will looked at him with exasperation. 

“Fine. Tea.”

“I know you were expecting something different. For that I am sorry.”

“Please. We’re both adults. We both know each other. Can we stop pretending we don’t get drunk at 9 AM? I have to get back to Pennsylvania and I don’t want to be sober.”

His bitterness was palpable. 

“If you drink I will have to insist on driving you back to Pennsylvania. I won’t let you leave this house if you’ll be driving while intoxicated.”

Will scowled. 

“Fine. Just- let’s just go then. I don’t want to deal with today. Now where’s that whiskey you were talking about last week?”

“Alright.”

Hannibal went down into the cellar where his finest alcohol was kept. He found the whiskey, grabbed a tumbler and some ice on his way back upstairs, and soon Will found it in his hands. He drank it quickly, placing the glass on the table next to him. Without a coaster. Hannibal only barely kept himself from scolding him. It was one of the most basic rules of courtesy in the home of your host. But then again, Will had no one to teach him. Only a father who pined after a woman who would never come home. Hannibal could picture a young Will Graham with ease. A little boy, all elbows and knees, who carried his father’s fishing pole and lures while they walked to the stream. He had such potential, but he kept himself from it almost out of spite. 

“Thanks. Sorry for being rude. Rough night.”

“I understand. Now, what address in Pennsylvania should I drive you to?”

“Just take me to the crime scene. The address is on my phone.”

In a flurry of movement, Will was up and headed towards the door, grabbing his boots and coat as he walked towards the entranceway. He swiftly slipped on his boots without untying them, put on his coat, and was outside in less than a minute. Before he left, however, he placed his phone next to the empty glass. There was no lock screen, and Hannibal was surprised at how neat and organized his phone was. Every application was utilitarian: phone, email, texting, photographs. There were no games or anything that might tell you who the device belonged to, other than the wallpaper. The wallpaper was a photo of Will, sitting in a pile with his dogs. They were a mess of slobber and scruffy fur, climbing over each other to get Will's attention. He had a genuine smile, the kind that you only see in the middle of a good laugh. Those dogs really were his family. They loved him just as much as he loved them- they were grateful for his taking care of them, but they also loved him unconditionally. It didn’t matter who gave them the food, or whose house they stayed in. They saw Will as one of their own. The leader of the pack. Hannibal wondered who had taken the picture. 

As Hannibal stared at the screen he realized that Will hadn’t told him where on his phone the address was. In his emails, his text messages? He had no idea. He followed Will outside, where he was already comfortably seated in the passenger seat with his feet up on the dashboard. He looked at Hannibal for a long second before he realized what he had forgotten to explain. Hannibal smiled a little, opened the door, and slid into the driver’s seat, handing Will’s phone back to him. In return, Will handed him the keys. 

“Sorry. It’s in the last text from Jack.”

“No problem. I like the picture of you and your strays.”

“Oh, yeah. It was Cooper’s 5th birthday. He’s the bulldog.”

“Cooper. Lovely name.”

“Yeah. It’s the name we found on the collar he was wearing. We tried to contact his owner, but they said they couldn’t afford to keep a dog anymore. I couldn’t let him just live on the streets, so he’s my Cooper now. The others didn’t trust him at first, but they came around.”

“Dogs have a remarkable talent for kindness. I considered adopting an animal, but I couldn’t abide the shedding.”

“Not all pets shed. You could get fish. Or a turtle. They don’t do much, but they’re nice. You know, you’d probably like cats. I can see you with a cat.”

The buzz had definitely kicked in. Hannibal thought he’d humor him.

“A cat? Why do you say that?”

“I dunno. They’re quiet, they like to sit on your lap, they slink around the house and want you to pay attention to them on their own terms. They’re your type.”

“I wasn’t aware that I had a type.”

“Everyone has a type. My type is a stiff drink.”

Hannibal laughed. 

“I can tell. Now where are we going?”

Will read off the address as Hannibal backed out of the driveway. Will seemed much less paranoid and angry now, which was a relief. That kind of attitude did not sit well with him. Hannibal could see why he enjoyed drinking. It was the one thing that could take out the bitter sting of his reality, and allow him to escape the clarity of his own mind. His GPS showed that their drive should take about two and a half hours, plenty of time for Will to get some rest before he dove back into Jack Crawford’s playground.


	4. Room with a View

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hannibal and Will reach the crime scene.

“Prints. No crime is perfect- a burglar often slips up and leaves prints somewhere, even if it’s just a partial. We’ve found no useable prints, not even for the victims. It’s like someone wrecked the house, and then wiped down the entire place until it was spotless. It’s surreal. Price said it shouldn’t be possible, but he hasn’t been able to find anything of note. Whoever did this had a really good set of gloves, or a squeegee and jug of all-surface cleaner.”

How could someone leave no prints at all? There had to be something there- they just hadn’t found it yet. Wiping down the entire house would take time, especially if they were insistent on being thorough. But why had they gone to the effort? What was the point of wrecking everything if you were going to have to clean it up later? 

“That makes sense though. This burglar knew to be cautious. They could have worn two pairs of gloves at once, or attacked just after the housekeeper cleaned up.”

“Just wait and see.”

Jack led them up the stairs to the master bedroom. Will stood outside for a few moments, trying to anticipate what Jack expected him to think. When he entered, he saw a young man and woman, probably recently married, lying facedown on the floor in their pajamas. They had been discovered by their housekeeper, who upon finding the house quiet and ransacked had called the police. It really did just look like your average failed burglary attempt. The couple weren’t However ‘normal’ this looked, there was something wrong. Something about the way they were lying there, or the exit wounds, or the…. that was it. The obvious. It had taken him far too long to notice, judging by the smug grin on Jack’s face. Hannibal hadn’t said anything, waiting for Will to figure it out himself.

“Where’s the blood?”

“Exactly.”

“There’s no blood at all? None?”

“No blood, no prints. Nothing.”

Will felt as if he’d been hit by a train. He knew when he saw the entrance and exit wounds on the bodies- the wounds were clean. The clothing had bullet holes, but no dark stains. The killer had shot them after their fluids had been drained, or he washed their clothes and put them back on the bodies. He looked around the room. The walls were as white as the carpet. If there had been any blood, it would have left noticeable blotches and discoloration. He thought of the mud on the door’s handle, but the clean carpet downstairs. To the public, it was exactly what it looked like. No one would question something that seemed already obvious. However, it left clear messages that only those who knew the Ripper’s work would recognized. Will tried to think of when the last Chesapeake Ripper murder had been- two, three months ago? There had only been two that year. 

“It’s the Ripper. This is the third.”

“The Ripper makes his murders a show, Will. He likes to make a scene. He doesn’t try to hide what he does and make it look like a regular burglary. They could have been killed somewhere else and brought back to their house to make it seem more realistic.”

“How do you know? This could be his masterpiece hidden in the museum basement. He made a show of making it seem mundane, with glaring details that tell you it isn’t. It’s a game, Jack.”

“If it’s the Ripper, we don’t have a lot of time.” 

He could tell that Jack was exasperated. The Will who cried Wolf, claiming another Ripper murder after 5 minutes at the scene. 

“I’m telling you, this has to be the Ripper. It’s different, but it’s him. If you look back at this couple’s history, something will be there that explains why they were set up like this. Maybe they were sick and the blood was a hazard, maybe they worked at a blood bank, I don’t know. I need to be alone, please.”

Jack understood. He motioned to the other agents to step back. They’d seen Will working enough to know that he needed his space, and they retreated quietly into the hall.

“Clear out, everyone. I want you downstairs, take your tools and go start combing the yard. Under no circumstances will you come to the second floor until I say so.”

The door closed behind him with a soft click. He closed his eyes, letting his body forget his identity as the familiar darkness found its way inside. For a few moments, he stood there in silence, waiting until his mind had prepared the scenario for him. Sometimes it was blurry around the edges, other times it was crystal clear. It all depended on what he knew versus what he could see, and sometimes he noticed with apprehension that it was getting harder and harder to detach himself from these places he stepped into. They existed somewhere out of time, both in the past and present, waiting for him to settle in and retrace the steps of the murderers and criminals that lived their entire lives inside. Sometimes they reached out to him with invisible hands, grasping at him as if to pull him even deeper into themselves. He tried not to touch these other consciousnesses, only letting their thoughts and actions overlap long enough to understand why. Get in, get out, get results. Clean and simple.

A soft yellow light passed before his eyes. Something told him it was time. He opened his eyes and he was standing in another room. There were no walls, no ceiling, only whiteness that meant he didn’t have enough information to form an imaginary location. Before him lay the couple, Carmen and James, spread out on sterilized tables like those in an operating room. They were very clearly dead, and long rubber tubes snaked out from their forearms, pouring their blood into what looked like large IV drip bags. He stepped forward until he was standing between them with one hand on each of their foreheads. He turned around and they were on the floor in front of him, kneeling with their hands and feet firmly tied behind their backs. They slumped limply like dolls. When he spoke, his voice was steady and hollow.

“I shot you with two bullets to the spine, but you were already dead. I silently snuck into your home while you slept, snapped your necks and brought you here, so I could finish my work. It didn’t matter how you died, only that you gave me what I need.”

He could see the metallic shine of the bullets, slowly spinning as they came out of the gun, Carmen and James’ skin rippling as the projectiles tore through their bodies. No blood flew outwards, no messy spray of innards. The wounds were clean, though the flesh was shredded by the exit wound. 

“I have already siphoned out your blood and hid it away, alongside your kidneys. I remove the zip ties, let you fall like sacks of flour on the floor.”

Roughly, he flipped over Carmen’s body and stared into her eyes. He sat down beside her, leaving James face-down on the cold tile until he could roll him over. He didn’t seem to mind waiting. After all, ladies always went first. Her features were soft, her eyes an icy grey. Wrinkles had just begun to form around her mouth, and her hair was beginning to grey, just like her husband’s. They both wore jeans, and James had a rather ugly polo shirt. They were middle aged, wealthy, and dead, creatures taken down just past their prime. 

“Why are you here? I see you as pigs for slaughter, unimportant. Why did I drain you first? What am I going to use the blood for? Why did I put you back instead of making you into a theatrical event?”

The corpses gave no answer, and he didn’t expect one. He kept speaking in that empty, even tone that sounded nothing like himself. 

“I covered my tracks, in the most obvious way. I spent a day wiping down every surface in your home, creating my carefully placed carnage until it looked perfectly average. I brought you back home and laid you out, just how they would expect to find you. I constructed a crime that I didn’t commit, to hide my tracks and obscure the reasoning behind it. I didn’t care about how you died, but I cared about something. What was it?”

He couldn’t for the life of him think of anything. There were puzzle pieces scattered around in his mind, but none of them fit together and he didn’t have the box to guide him. These details seemed random, but there was something that he was missing, something that was just out of reach. He didn’t have enough to go on, and it was strange for him. Usually he could figure it out quickly, like someone was whispering the answer in his ear, but this time there was a wall between him and the killer. It had to be the Ripper, but what was the motivation? What was his design?

The thought crossed his mind that this was, maybe, exactly what it looked like- a premeditated murder disguised as a crime scene. But it was too premeditated, too organized in it’s disorder. The killer wanted it to be confusing, wanted to reveal more information at his own speed. He would have to wait until the Ripper decided that it was time for the next clue to be found. Something nagged at him- a fleeting thought, an idea too unbelievable to make any sense. That voice from his dream was telling him something, but he couldn’t discern the words. He remembered the blood sausage from that morning, remembered the taste of iron and the sickly sweetness of it. He looked down at the bodies, saw their skin empty and white. Their arteries were empty now, bereft of that life-giving liquid. felt as if he were going to throw up. It was a bizarre and unfortunate coincidence. Maybe he should have asked his psychiatrist to cook something else for breakfast. Maybe then he wouldn’t feel so confused, so at odds with this case. With this line of work, he was considering becoming a vegetarian.

He struggled to maintain the illusion, but the white room and the medical tables slowly began to slip away. He knew there was no use trying to get anything else from this as of now, so he relinquished his grasp and felt himself come back to reality. It took a few seconds for his head to clear, and when the master bedroom of James and Carmen Leucke came back into focus he realized that he was cold. He had left his coat with Jack, counting on his distraction to keep him warm. Instead, it was probably 40 degrees inside, and his teeth were chattering. 

He stepped back towards the door, and opened it onto an empty hallway. His coat was folded neatly and draped over the banister, with a post-it note on top that said in neat handwriting ‘when you are finished, we’ll be outside’. He slipped it on, grateful for the warmth, and headed down the stairs. The house had been cleaned out, all evidence bagged and tagged and most likely on its way to the lab for analysis by now. He looked down at his watch, and saw with surprise that he had been upstairs for nearly 4 hours. It hadn’t felt like 4 hours- it couldn’t have taken that long just to visualize and come to the conclusion that he had nothing at all that he could use.

Outside the wind was picking up, and Jack and Hannibal stood out by the car, the only ones left. 

“Are you okay? We were going to come in there and check on you, but when we knocked you told us you were fine.”

“I did? I don’t remember that… I must have been ‘in the zone’, I suppose.”

“Did you find anything important? We figured that with how long you were up there you must have stumbled on something.”

“I can’t yet. I don’t have enough information. There’s too many gaps, and you know what you say about making assumptions.”

“Didn’t you say this was the Ripper? That’s certainly background information, and we don’t have time for playing his games, Will. Tell me you found something, anything that we can use.”

“Look, all I can say is that his focus wasn’t how they died. He could have killed them with an icepick for all we care. The murder weapon can help us get a wide net to search under, but it’s the missing blood that’s important.”

“We already know that. Give me something useful.”

"He shot them when they were already dead, after he drained the blood, but he killed them by snapping their necks in the house. He didn’t want to lose any. Why, I don’t know. My best guess is that he needs it, he’s planning to use it in some way for his theatrical tableaux, which could be showing up any day now. He kept the livers, presumably for his kitchen. Find past records of blood type, any medical records, which I assume you’ve already done, and check all the blood banks and hospitals in the area to see if anyone has seen anything weird. He’ll need some place to put everything, and he definitely had the medical supplies to do it cleanly. He’d have a separate workspace, remote enough that no one would notice him carrying 2 corpses in and out.” 

“Now that I can work with. I’ll let everyone know. I need to meet everyone at the lab so we can start the full analysis of the bodies. If you’d like to accompany me…?”

“I’m not feeling too great. I’d honestly rather not. But do I have a choice, really?”

“I need you, Will. Doctor Lecter? Feel free to tag along. I’ll see you at the lab.”

Hannibal looked at Jack with a quiet defiance as he stepped into his car. He knew that Jack had politely refused his request for a break, as he had a hundred times before and would continue to do so in the future. He looked like he was about to speak up, maybe say something on Will’s behalf, but instead he took out the keys and walked to the driver’s seat of Will’s car.

“Are you coming? You can sleep in the car if you wish, I won’t press you with questions. ”

Will shrugged. It wasn’t like he had anything to say. He unceremoniously slumped into the passenger seat, frustrated and exhausted and feeling vaguely hungover. It had only been a few hours, but he didn’t feel buzzed. Instead, it felt like he’d been dragged through the snow. Hannibal wasted no time in pulling out of the driveway.

“I’m dreadfully sorry, Will. Jack doesn’t understand the weight that he has placed on your shoulders.”

“It’s not like there’s anything I can do about it.”

“You’re quite right. That’s why we’re not going to the lab.”

“What?”

“We’re going somewhere else. My treat.”

“Jack won’t appreciate our little field trip.”

“I will take the blame, but only if you take a break.”

“I guess. Anything is better than the lab right now. Where are we going?”

“I wouldn’t want to ruin the surprise.”

“You know I’m not one for surprises.”

“It’s a popular attraction in Baltimore. I won’t give you any more clues than that.”

“Back to Baltimore? Whatever, I don’t care what we do as long as it doesn’t have any crime scenes. I’m going to try and sleep. Wake me up when we get there- I’ll pay you for gas.”

For once, Will didn’t feel threatened by Hannibal. Here he was, letting his psychiatrist drive him around and take him to surprise locations, while playing hooky from work. It was a situation he never thought he’d be in, but oddly it didn’t feel...wrong. It just felt comfortable. He couldn’t feel that ever-present dread hanging behind him. Normally he would have been terrified to get on Jack’s bad side, but something told him Hannibal would have it covered. It was a small step towards trust, but a step nonetheless. He heard the rumble of the car start to fade as his eyes grew heavy. By the time Hannibal turned on the radio, Will had slipped into sleep.


	5. Currents

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will and Hannibal have a chance to unwind after a stressful day at the crime scene. However, the destination is not what Will was expecting.

“The Baltimore Aquarium? Isn’t it a bit… touristy for your taste?”

Will closed the car door and inched his way out between parking spaces and into the main body of the parking lot. The ground was littered with damp cigarette butts and soaked receipts dropped from strangers’ pockets, gathering dirt in the oily residue of a city’s worth of cars. He shuddered as the wind swept away whatever warmth he had gained from the car. Will had never been to this particular aquarium before; he’d never had a reason to go. He saw plenty of fish on his own time, and something about seeing the children gazing at the pretty creatures had always made him remorseful. The trout that caught his hooks did not look beautiful as they thrashed and gasped. They were decidedly ungraceful.

“Sometimes I come here to draw, during the winter when it’s too cold to go out and too quiet to stay home.”

“Why here? There are plenty of other things you could draw. And you could get in for free elsewhere.”

“It’s a challenge to capture their movement and color in a way that expresses their entire image. They are almost as fluid as the water they live in. A fish will not pose for an artist, or wait until there is just the right lighting. They are calmly but busily going about their lives, uncaring of our intentions when we come to see them.”

For a brief moment, Will was quiet. He almost let himself be distracted by the deep rumble of Hannibal’s voice, letting the essence of his words pass quietly by, but the icy air brought him back to the present. Hannibal was watching him curiously, expecting some thoughtful and eloquent response. Sadly, he would have to be disappointed. The crime scene had burned him out, and at this point he was running on fumes. He didn’t have enough energy for conversation, much less a philosophical discussion on the finer points of sketching goldfish. He breathed heavily, working to keep up with Hannibal’s brisk pace.

“Living art.”

Hannibal was unfazed by his curt answer. He appeared to be finally getting used to Will’s preference for conversation that went straight to the point.

“Precisely. They interact with their surroundings in such a distinctly alien manner. As human beings, we can relate to their drive for survival and their aesthetic beauty, but we exist on different levels. Fish are seen less as pets than as living decorations. One only has to look at the amount of fish tanks in doctor’s offices and restaurants for proof.”

“You don’t have a fish tank. You just have half an art gallery.”

“Perhaps I should invest in some fish. As you said before, they don’t shed. Only I should be worried about the desire to cook them.”

Hannibal smoothly stepped forward and held open the door for his companion. As the two men walked into the lobby, the atmosphere changed- at first frigid and formal, now electric and erratic. Half-finished conversations and rhetorical questions filled Will’s ears as he tried to pick through the overwhelming stimulation for useful information. He was never sure what would be the tipping point- were the lights too bright? Was it too loud, would he end up with a migraine? Sometimes the panic episodes appeared out of nowhere, sometimes they were triggered- the trouble was identifying what sparked the flame. Of course, it would have been much simpler if he didn’t have to notice each and every thing that happened around him, but he didn’t have much of a choice. Instead, the safest option was to plan around any unpleasant surprises and hope for the best. Most of the time he got lucky.

There were technically three separate buildings that made up the aquarium. At least, that’s what the advertisements and pamphlets always said. The largest section was directly ahead of them, with the other two connected by hallways to the left and right. Large screens showed images of animals from the multitude of exhibits, shows, and, interestingly, 4-D films. Soon he was able to recognize clear lines and associations from the haphazard arrangements of tour groups and families. He was relieved to find some comforting distractions in this unfamiliar landscape, and contentedly let his mind form invisible spiderwebs of connections through the mobs of people. Hannibal didn’t appear to be disturbed by the rabble, and instead seemed to be in his element, weaving through the crowd with one hand on Will’s shoulder and one darting through the air as he pointed out architectural patterns and other elements of design that would go otherwise unnoticed.

As they neared the entrance to the exhibits, he reached for his wallet. The sign said tickets were thirty dollars, and he wasn’t about to let his psychiatrist pay for his off-the-record ‘field trip’ when both of them were supposed to be at the lab, doing their jobs. However, Hannibal seemed to have anticipated this.

“I have a season pass. Now put your wallet away and come enjoy the fish.”

Before Will could protest, he had already handed him a map pamphlet and guided him towards the first room. The indignant reproach that came to mind barely had the chance to cross his lips before he was distracted by the sight of huge stingrays, floating silently across the floor of the large open-air pool in front of him. The ambient noise was much quieter now, muffled by the concrete walls. The water was crystal clear, and the rippling movements of the rays cast a mint-green glow on the underside of the viewing balconies. They were mesmerizing to watch. Will wondered how something that looked so ridiculous could be so graceful.

After a few minutes of milling around, he figured that he had seen everything the rays had to offer. It wasn’t as if they were going to get up and dance. He absentmindedly made his way toward the next area, eyes still trailing along the shifting reflections of the light on the bottom of the pool. There was something about the light that made the aquarium seem detached from reality. Will’s eyes barely left the glass; he was so accustomed to bringing fish from their own world into his, and it was jarring to see the colors of flourishing tropical sea life. These animals were like living fireworks compared to the schools of cookie-cutter fish that inhabited the rivers and lakes he frequented. Yet, as beautiful as they looked, they were just the same as less attractive fish in that their behaviors served only to reproduce and find subsistence. He didn’t particularly care how a fish looked as long as it tasted good.  _No one catches a fish because it’s beautiful,_ he mused to himself.  _Catch a fish for looks alone and it’s dead. A dead fish won't be beautiful for very long, unless you toss it in a tank and watch it wither in captivity._

People trickled past in an amorphous mass of indivisible faces and voices that swirled around him like an unconscious reflection of the swarming schools that flitted about before their eyes. Living art, he had said. Performance art- and he was the only one who wondered why he didn’t know the choreography.

.............

Will wasn’t sure when he and Hannibal had gotten separated. It had been a few hours, and he was getting tired. Caught up in the pull of the crowds, he had wandered and watched countless people filing by, mouths open wide in awe. As packed as the place was, he was surprised at how little stress he felt. In a dim, quiet corner, he sat with his back to the wall and closed his eyes, just listening to the muted bubbling of the tanks. Everything was enveloped in a heartbeat of blue, hushed but urgent. There were no pale faces clawing their way to the surface, no spent bullets, no doors. He was so used to these unwanted guests that he couldn’t evict from the depths of his psyche. He wondered if their absence was a relief, or if he was frightened that he’d miss them- that he was getting used to them. What was he without them?

The day Garrett Jacob Hobbs died felt as if it was ten years ago. Will couldn’t remember how it felt to have never heard that name. Hobbs was engrained in his body. He lived in the muscles of his hands, the tendons in his neck. As long as Will remembered him, Hobbs couldn’t truly die. By killing him, Will had ensured his legacy. In a moment of fear and exhilaration, he pulled the trigger, and something in him splintered. Hannibal had said that Jack thought of him as a fragile teacup, but Will felt more like a mirror. A broken teacup is worthless, but a broken mirror can still reflect. Even in pieces, he could still do some good. Looking back on the past few months, he was bizarrely apathetic. He used to be scared, or angry, or something else. Now he was just bitter. _It’s funny_ , he realized, _that this was the first time in a few months that he had been able to even think about that day without feeling some level of panic_.

The aquarium faded, and in its place was the cacophony of birdsong and the rush of the river. He closed the doors in his mind and opened himself to the warmth that this place usually brought, but something was wrong. Instead of peace, he felt dread tinged with alarm. He turned, expecting the nightmarish stag or something worse, but instead there was the one person he wanted to talk to more than anyone else.

“You won’t catch anything, you know.”

“Abigail?”

Usually she smiled. This time, she stared at the water as if it were going to swallow her whole.

“You’re looking in the wrong places. You should know that. You’re better at this than I am.”

“Only because I’ve had more practice. You’re getting there.”

He couldn’t hide the tenderness in his voice. He hadn’t expected to feel such pride for Abigail. Especially after what he’d taken from her. No, what he’d saved her from. Her father had stained her, just as he’d stained Will. They bonded over their mutual scars, strengthened their trust over their fear. She was just a kid trying to make sense of the screwed-up world life she was born into, and he couldn’t fault her for being distant. At some point, that distance would close, and they’d be able to talk without having to pretend.

“It’s not about that. Why are you fishing when there’s no fish to catch?”

When she looked up, there were antlers entwined with her hair. Her voice was thicker, like there was another voice lurking beneath. Maybe her fathers, maybe his. The catalyst for her destruction- the true root of it all- was still unknown to him. When she was ready, she would tell him, he had to believe that. She would trust him, sooner or later. And she was still standing there, staring at him with empty eyes and hands upturned as if showing him the answer to a question he had not yet asked. Will had the sinking feeling that she was poisoning this place; the things she had seen and the things he had done were leaking out of them. No matter how much they tried to contain it, the forest was absorbing the blood on their hands. Heavy clouds were rolling in, casting shadows on the water. His ears began to ring with a shrill squeal, and he felt as if he were in an earthquake. He reached towards her, scrambling for words, hoping she would know what was happening, but she was already walking away. The antlers speared through the back of her neck, delicately tracing her scar. She didn’t look back.

“I don’t understand-"

The forest collapsed around him, folding in on itself like a page curling into flames. Something had interrupted them. He was stirred from his pondering by a noise that was clearly out of sync with the sounds of the aquarium. It wasn’t a dangerous sound, or a disquieting one. It sounded like the scrape of a newly sharpened pencil. He spoke without opening his eyes.

“Hello, doctor.”

The scratching stopped.

“Ah, so you are awake.”

He didn’t sound surprised.

“I was never asleep. Just thinking. It’s been a long day. How long have you been here?”

“I didn’t want to smother you. I wanted you to experience this at your own pace, so I’ve tailed along behind.”

“That didn’t answer my question. How long have you been in here, with me?”

Will fought to keep the irritation and hostility out of his voice. He bristled at the thought of being watched. It spoke of vulnerability, fragility- things he was resentfully aware of. As much as he would like to, he couldn’t force someone not to look at him. Eyes had a way of finding him, searching through his body language and his behaviors for a diagnosis or an explanation for his ‘strangeness”. Will found it disconcerting that Hannibal’s eyes never searched- they knew what they were after. No questions asked- he could see through any facade, no matter how elaborate. Whether it was the years of psychiatry or a peculiar intuition, Will had no idea.

“Not long. I wandered in and out every few minutes. I haven’t been staring, if that’s what you’re worried about. I returned to this area because it held the nearest bench. Was I interrupting something? Sitting on the floor can’t be comfortable.”

“It doesn’t matter now. I prefer to do my thinking by myself. Was I wasting your time?”

“Not at all."

There were no footsteps or quiet conversation to alert him to the presence of any other patrons of the aquarium. It was just the two of them, then. After a few seconds of silence, the scratching began once more. Realizing that his interrupted stream of thought was beyond saving, Will stretched out his legs and slowly opened his eyes. It took him a few seconds to adjust to the light, and then he saw the fluttering movement of shadows and the streamlined form of a shark. He waveringly rose to his feet and put his glasses back into place. Hannibal must have seen the surprise on Will’s face. He was silhouetted on the grey cushioned bench, his profile illuminated by the flicker of greenish light that reflected off the tank’s thick glass. Will could picture him sitting in that exact spot, day after day, dreamily following the fish as they meandered through the reef, sketchbook tucked beneath his arm. In his dark green suit and gold-toned tie, Hannibal looked like a contemporary Poseidon.

“We’re in the reef exhibit. Do you remember coming in before, with the crowd?”

“Yeah.”

Neither man felt the need to say any more. Every few seconds, another shark would glide by, and Will would gaze at the texture of their skin, the fragile skin covering their gills. They were smaller than he expected, more lithe. They were not the hulking great whites he had seen in films and documentaries. He had never understood the immediate fear response that sharks generated. Like many other animals, sharks were only really dangerous to humans when they were frightened or desperate. A human on a surfboard and a seal or sea lion look jarringly similar when seen from below, especially by a predator with limited critical thinking skills and no investigative abilities beyond biting. If the only way he could manipulate objects was by using a mouth filled with rows of sharp teeth, his intentions would probably be misunderstood too. Well, more than they already had. The media enjoyed emphasizing the rare attacks- shark or otherwise- where humans were injured or killed only because it drew in readers looking for something shocking. Blood in the water makes for a good show and an even better news story. Mistakes and miscommunications make for boring resolutions to exciting mysteries, and they certainly don’t make as much money as a scandal. A robbery gone wrong... a man mistaken for a meal.

"How long have we been at the aquarium?"

Hannibal checked his watch. 

"About four hours. Are you ready to leave, or would you rather stay for a while longer?"

"We should probably go. I haven't checked my phone yet, but I'd be willing to bet I've got 15 missed calls from Jack. I don't even want to imagine how much trouble we're in."

"Like I said before, I'll take care of it. You deserve a break every once in a while, Will. You go to work, you come home and you dream about work until it's time to go back in the morning. You have to break this connection, Will. Otherwise it will envelop you. There will be nothing left but daydreams of blood and nightmares of crime scene tape."

"That's not much of a change from what's happening now, is it?"

"Exactly, Will. You need to give yourself a chance to rest. We can leave as soon as you're ready. I'll talk to Jack once you're back home with your dogs."

He stood, shadowed in the doorway. He looked disappointed, somehow. 

"Are you alright?"

Hannibal looked at him with a strange smile.

"I'm perfectly fine- thank you for asking. I hope you enjoyed our little adventure. If you would like, we can visit again when we aren't playing hooky."

Will had to laugh. For all the anxiety he had about coming with him, he had enjoyed himself. It may not have been the experience Hannibal was hoping he would have, but he liked it. 

"I did. It was nice to see the fishes' side of the story for once. And I think it would be much easier for us to appreciate this place when we aren't dodging 20 missed calls from 'dad'. Maybe some other time."

As Will turned to follow Hannibal towards the lobby, the sharks began to feed.

 


	6. Mystery Theatre

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Someone's Surprised.

When Hannibal and Will finally arrived at the lab, they knew they were in for a lecture. Will had practically jogged through the building until he realized that there was no point- he was already late. Hannibal hadn’t broken stride. From the moment they entered the building to the moment the lab doors came into view, he was calm and collected as always. Not even the sight that awaited them gave him any surprise. The lab, usually bustling with activity and loud, was completely silent. Jack stood at the far end, facing away from them. Hannibal knew that Will was silently praying that Jack hadn’t heard them opening the door. Unfortunately, this was not the case.

“Where the hell were you?”

Jack’s rages could be terrifying, but this quiet displeasure was much worse. Will was fumbling with his words, trying to find some way to explain that he had actually spent his work day goofing off at the aquarium with his therapist. Hannibal looked at him, confused. He had told him that he would take care of it and talk to Jack. The problem was that he had anticipated having this conversation with Jack alone, once Will had left.

“I, uh. I was-"

“I’m waiting.”

Hannibal placed his arm on Will’s shoulder, trying to reassure him. He shook it off.

“Jack, Will wasn’t feeling his best. I accompanied him to the doctor. He was just having a dizzy spell, that’s all.”

Jack wasn’t convinced. Just as he started to turn around, Hannibal reached over and grabbed the aquarium entrance sticker off Will's shirt before Jack could see it. His own was still hidden by his coat. Will jolted at at the unexpected touch, and when he realized what had just happened he locked eyes with Hannibal and nodded a silent ‘thank you’. Hannibal was already facing forward, with no sign that anything had occurred on his face. It was not difficult for him to ‘act natural’. He had had plenty of practice over the years. Jack, finally facing them, stared at Hannibal. With the light behind him, he made an intimidating silhouette. Will fidgeted even more, glaring at the floor and fiddling with his keys in his pockets. He wasn’t scared of Jack- just the awkward and unpleasant social situations that always followed him.

Hannibal had almost the exact opposite effect- he was like a statue, impenetrable and impossible to read. He was a barrier between Will and the world, and sometimes he feared that eventually that barrier might come to envelop him completely. Will sometimes thought he was about to break through that barrier and finally see what he was hiding, but every time it ended up being another dead end. He supposed that trying to psychoanalyze a an expert in psychoanalysis wouldn't really get him anywhere, but he thought that it might help him understand Hannibal enough to trust him. There was some part of his brain that wanted to. 

“You were at the doctor’s for four hours? You’re his therapist, Dr. Lecter, not his babysitter. What the hell am I paying you for if you don’t show up?”

He was more exasperated than angry. This hadn’t been the first time that Will had disappeared for a few hours while working a case. Jack knew that he occasionally needed to escape and work through information on his own, but it happened at such random intervals that there was no way to plan around it. Sometimes he worried that something would happen and they’d have no idea he needed help until it was too late. And the last thing he needed was encouragement from Dr. Lecter. It was obvious that he hadn’t taken Will to a doctor’s appointment. Will’s reaction was enough to tell him that. They had probably just lost track of time or gotten something to eat. It really didn’t matter why they were late, it just mattered that they were.

“It won’t happen again.”

Will seemed to be regaining his composure. Although he still kept his eyes on the floor, his posture had relaxed and his voice was steadier.

“You’re damn right it won’t. Now if you would please get up to date on these files, we can actually get something done today.”

Jack stormed out, letting the door swing shut behind him with a loud clack. Both men waited until Jack disappeared behind a corner to speak. Will let out a deep sigh and finally managed to bring his gaze upward. Hannibal had noticed this tendency to look at the floor dramatically increased whenever Jack was in the room. Even when he was in a good mood, Will had a hard time looking his boss in the eye. There were a few people, like Beverly and Alanna, that he felt comfortable enough around to maintain some eye contact with, but Jack was particularly difficult. Perhaps it was his commanding presence, or his authority as an FBI agent, or simply his serious manner of speaking. 

“I told you I would handle it. Everything is fine now.”

Hannibal peeled his aquarium sticker off, folded it in half, and stuck it in the pocket of his coat. Will was pacing, muttering quietly as he read the files in the manila folder Jack had handed him. He was gripping his pen so tightly that his knuckles were white. The stark fluorescent lights left shadows on his thin face that made him look severe- the dark circles under his eyes looked like bruises. Hannibal wasn’t sure if he was upset or afraid.

“Why are you so determined to lie for me?”

His pacing was rhythmic- left, right, left, right, pause. Left, right, left, right, pause. Hannibal wondered how often he had paced in that exact pattern. After a long enough time, he might wear away the pattern on the linoleum. He always seemed to be stuck in his tracks- following the same patterns over and over. Hannibal recognized these as hallmarks of Will’s place on the spectrum, but it didn’t bother him. For some, patterns and repetition were as relaxing and soothing as classical music and cooking was to him. It was a way of seizing control of the chaos- of placating the irregularities of the world.

“I am not. I am only determined to help you.”

Will looked incredulous for a second. He stopped pacing and sank down into a desk chair by the lab computer. He sloughed off his jacket where it slumped to the floor in a heap. Hannibal quickly stepped over, picked it up, and folded it for him. Will didn't even notice.

“By lying for me? God, the last person anyone should be lying to is Jack. If he finds out I was just wasting time-“

“He knew we weren’t at an appointment.”

“Then why did you tell him we were? What’s the point of playing games?”

“It was not a game. All three of us knew we were not doing what we said we were. Telling him what we were actually doing would be impolite because it implied that we do not value his time. Using a plausible excuse was the best way of going about it without necessitating a discussion on our aquarium visit.”

Will shook his head. His glasses slid down a little and threatened to fall off completely, but he didn’t notice. It took him a moment to process what Hannibal had just said, to work through the logic and make sense of it, but he just looked up at Hannibal, exasperated. Hannibal looked back, expecting him to say something, but he didn’t. He just put his glasses back in place, raked his hand through his hair, and went back to looking at the floor.

"That's a game, Dr. Lecter."

"You can call me by my first name. We agreed."

"Sorry. That's a game, Hannibal."

There was a while where neither of them knew what to say. Will had secretly hoped that by the time they left the aquarium that he'd feel at least a little relaxed, but instead he felt drained. It was like the color had leached out of his body into the walls. He was just so goddamn tired. 

“Is something wrong?”

“You have a gift for making things complicated.”

“In what way?”

“See? That. Answering questions with questions. You never say things as they are. You bundle them up in metaphors and sometimes it’s like you can’t separate yourself as a therapist from yourself as a person."

Hannibal considered this for a moment. Internally, he was happy that Will was so eager to talk despite his clearly anxious state. He always relished these small discussions, partially because they offered a better understanding of what Will was looking for in him. Hannibal could not deny feeling a strong bond to Will, but he maintained his distance. Will had told him he was uncomfortable, and until he trusted him more he would not push him. He got the feeling that Will would warm up to him with time, but in order for that friendship to form he had to make it clear that he was genuine and respect his boundaries. It was difficult sometimes- offering help and having it be refused.

“Who I am as a person shaped my my career choices and my research. I became a therapist because I am deeply interested in the human mind and what it can do.”

“But you’re not _just_ a therapist. There’s more to you than your degrees.”

“Everyone has secrets, or things they’d like to keep to themselves.”

There was only the sound of pages turning as Will flipped back through the file he was reading. When he finally spoke, it was so quiet that Hannibal almost didn’t hear it. He almost sounded embarrassed.

“Doesn’t it bother you? The way I question you all the time?”

“No.”

“Really? It doesn’t make you mad that your patient is constantly telling you he doesn’t trust you?” He laughed softly. “I don’t know how you do it. I think I’d go crazy.”

“Working in this field makes you open to a lot of criticism. I believe we should always question ourselves and others. If you didn’t question me, I’d be concerned. Direct feedback facilitates better work.”

“You finished with those files?”

Jack stuck his head in the doorway, beckoning them away to continue their work with the rest of the team. Beverly was close behind, offering a polite wave. She looked tired too- apparently they weren't the only ones Jack had been lecturing that day. She had a cup of coffee in one hand and a huge stack of files in the other.

“Yeah. Anything else you need, or are we good?”

“You should be all caught up by now. That’s everything on the last case.”

Jack left as quickly as he appeared, and Beverly grabbed the files from Will and followed, trying to keep up with Jack as he strode purposefully back down the hallway. He always had somewhere to be- when Will really thought about it, he had never seen Jack outside of work. He had spent time with his other colleagues occasionally, but never Jack. Maybe Jack was like Hannibal- unable to separate himself from his life’s work. Beverly though- Beverly was like Alana. Always in control, and somehow able to keep a smile and joke around when things got difficult. She was, Will thought, one of the only people he knew that could hold her own against Jack when he was in a mood. 

“One thing that’s been bothering me about this. Why?”

“Why what?”

“You know how I said that if it’s the ripper, there’ll be a _reason_ these two were chosen. I’ve been combing back through their history and it’s just… normal. There’s nothing that would make these two clear targets. Maybe I was wrong.”

“Would any other criminal go to the effort to make the scene look like a regular robbery?”

“Maybe. I’ve seen some pretty bizarre cases over the years. I mean, think about it. There’s not exactly a shortage of strange murders in the area.”

“That’s true,” Hannibal said, “But you have spent enough time on the Ripper murders to have a good idea of when you have encountered him. Keep looking for information. Like I said before- everyone has secrets. If they were so easy to find, they wouldn’t be secrets.”

 

____________________________

 

Although externally Hannibal appeared to be as calm and collected as ever, his mind had been spinning all day. He hadn’t killed Carmen and James Leucke- he hadn’t taken their blood, and he had absolutely no idea who did. The blood he used for his sausages was actually, for once, cow’s blood. He’d been so busy the past few days that he hadn’t had time to use anything but the blood he sometimes bought from his butcher. When they had arrived at the crime scene, he had been expecting the usual rigamarole that they encountered in between the more showy cases. Instead, he was greeted with a mystery. Since the Chesapeake Ripper cycle was coming around once again, he would have spent more time working on a tableau, but it seemed that someone had done it for him. It wasn't as artistic as he would have liked, but it was certainly thought provoking. 

That had been the true reason for their spontaneous trip to the aquarium- Hannibal needed time to think, and he needed it to look like there was nothing to think about. He knew he and Will would quickly get separated and that Will would not be thinking clearly, which gave Hannibal plenty of time to himself to ponder while still keeping an eye on him. Of course, he could have just gone back to the lab like they were supposed to, or gone home to think in private, but he sensed that a calm, quiet, and visually stimulating place would be beneficial for both of them. 

Still- even after the lab was locked up and everyone had headed their separate ways, Hannibal felt uneasy. Someone was trying to be the Ripper, and that could be dangerous. A copycat, however flattering, could make mistakes. And a mistake could lead directly to his doorstep. Until he knew what kind of killer he was dealing with, he had to be more observant. Perhaps someone had been observing him, too.

___________________________

Two cities away, a young man was thinking.

As his jeep cruised down the highway, he readjusted the badge clipped to his scrubs that identified him as a medical student and intern at St. Patrick’s Hospital. To anyone else on the road, he appeared to be the average college student- twenty four years old and always looking at least a little bit tired. It had been a long day- he had his clinical rotations, and he was eager to get home. He kept the inside of his car immaculately cleaned, and even though the car was 10 years old he kept it in perfect working condition. This cleanliness was for a reason. He had, more than anyone would suspect, something to hide.

He enjoyed driving on days like this- dreary and cold. Grey like polished steel. What had started as flurries was quickly becoming a storm. The wind whipped through the trees so violently that he could see branches splintering and breaking off. Every few seconds he would see a pair of lights through the fog like the eyes of a wounded animal. First bright, then fading to nothingness as the car disappeared behind him. Sometimes as he slowed, he could see the faint silhouette of a deer by the side of the road. Their eyes glowed too, reflecting the yellowish orange beams that fell on their faces. The young man turned on the radio, flipping through channels with a speed that indicated that he wasn’t really listening, but searching for palatable background noise. Classic rock, jazz, house music- none were satisfactory. He had listened to his CDs over and over until he could barely stand them, and the radio stations overplayed the same six songs for months. So he kept flipping, through the sports broadcasts and college stations, until something caught his attention and he stopped. His fingers fluttered over the gear shift, tapping out a rhythm at odds with the voices he heard.

“Baltimore police have reported yet another grisly murder earlier this week. They have not released full information to the press, but they have confirmed that the victims were a local couple, Carmen and James Leucke. It is unclear if Baltimore PD have a suspect yet. Because of the r-"

That was all he really needed to hear. After all, they did say that they didn’t have much information yet. But they would soon- once they had really started working on the case, it would spread, and everyone would know exactly what happened. The mysteries would be solved one by one, and everything would fall into place. Carmen and James Leucke. The all-American couple. A few kids, a dog, a white picket fence. They had a pretty good life, considering. They had been so good at hiding who they were for so long that they started to believe their own lies, and that was almost worse than the lies themselves. The blood in his cooler at home was theirs. It had flowed through their veins and lived their mistakes and eventually, when the truth came out, fled their bodies at his direction. And he did have a direction- their blood’s story did not end with the deaths of Carmen and James. There was still a role for them to play.

He was lucky. Very few people had the opportunities and the resources that he had at his disposal. He’d put a year or two of work into planning, making sure everything would work seamlessly before beginning. When he killed that couple, he had thought he was doing it because he had to. He never intended to like it. But he had to admit he kind of did.


End file.
